Disclaimer: Work of
fiction based on the characters from the
television series "The Magnificent Seven." No
copyright infringement intended to Hallmark, CBS,
TNN, MGM, Mirisch, Trilogy, and any others I have
not listed with the rights. No profit will be
made from this work.

Warnings: Pure fluff,
Bad Language.

Rating: R

Author's Note: I
probably should not have written this, and don't
want to offend anyone with it, but having been
through this more than once myself, the humor of
it could not be denied. Besides, someone told me
this sounded like an After-School Special, so why
not have a little humor with a little lesson?
Special thanks to Cin for the beta and picture,
and Brate for giving this a couple looksees.

*@!&#$%@#&*!$#@*!

It sat there like a silent
sentry, watching over them. Lording over their
every word. Making them think before they spoke.

It was the fifth jar placed
in this particular office; the previous four
meeting rather unique and, in some cases,
unfortunate demises.

Number one tested gravity
from the roof to the pavement below. It did not
survive. The memorial lasted as long as it took
for the dustpan and brush to clean up the remains
from the street.

Number two was the victim of
an experiment on whether a high-speed impact with
a cement wall would inflict damage. The theory
proved correct, and again, the memorial lasted the
duration of the dustpan and brush.

Number three "died" from a
single shotgun blast during drunken revelry. It
received more celebration than its predecessors
for the "spectacularly devastating shatter." In
fact, each of the seven men still had a piece of
number three.

Number four had a hard act to
follow. Until a creative Texan soul decided to
use it for a charity collection, taking it and all
the loose change and bills stuffed within to an
orphanage. It currently held a place of honor
beside fifty of its brethren, the other offices
not allowing number four's owners to be alone in
their goodwill and charity.

This was number five. And it
was called Babylon. They named it, figuring it
was, like JD said, "The last best hope for
peace." Since they were under strict orders to
keep it safe or face the wrath of a certain
Assistant Director, Babylon received a cage. It
resembled a miniature jail cell, with a padlock on
the front, and seven small keys on seven key
chains. Pictures of Babylon's owners were tacked
as wallpaper inside, each face sketched Old West
wanted-poster style. None of the pictures
flattered. Above the cell was a chart listing the
offenses and their fines that fed Babylon.

Their Assistant Director saw
the elaborate setup, only raising an eyebrow. He
knew from experience not to ask; the jar was not a
topic that fostered goodwill on either side.

It was only a third of the
way through the month and Babylon already held
twenty dollars in change and bills. The money
would be donated to Denver ATF's official charity
at the end of every month, the orphanage a certain
Texan talked the Denver office into when the
futility of losing the program became painfully
apparent.

Babylon had a purpose, a
goal, and a reason to exist.

They hated Babylon.

Babylon didn't care.

They glared at Babylon, even
while they fed the jar.

Babylon didn't care.

Sometimes they even paid for
the privilege to feed Babylon, cussing Babylon out
while shoving money in the top of the jar.

Babylon sat waiting for the next feeding
in the jail cell.

On this particular day, the
conversation again turned to the reason for
Babylon's presence. For the hundredth time since
the arrival of the clear Mason jar--complete with
quilted top with slit and "Team Seven" painted on
one side, "Babylon" on the other--they talked
about their jar.

"Cockamamie idea," Buck said,
giving it a good stare.

"Is cockamamie a cuss word?"
JD asked.

"Consult Mr. Webster," Ezra
replied. He tossed the unabridged college
dictionary at the youngest.

"Our forefathers would be
ashamed to see this suffocation of the First
Amendment." Ezra stood. "Freedom of speech?
Hardly. More like a muzzling of the uncouth."

"Who are you calling
uncouth?" Buck threw a paper wad at the
Southerner. "You've fed it ten bucks in the last
month and a half."

"Only because of your
juvenile pranks, Mister Wilmington. I am quite
unaccustomed to having shaving cream explode in my
face due to a dangerously childish attempt at
humor."

"Ought to make him pay for
them three dollar words."

Ezra made a face at Buck.
"Just because you lack the ability to translate
words above a comic book level does not mean
others in this room do not appreciate my attempts
to enrich their vocabulary."

"Well said, Brother." Josiah
kept reading, not looking up from his book.

"Thank you." Standish
disappeared in the cantina to fill his coffee mug.

"Son of a bitch!" Chris
yelled from his office. "And shut the hell up,
all of you." The leader stormed out of his
office, walked over to the jail, opened it, and
then yanked out his wallet. He fed it a
twenty-dollar bill, glared at Babylon, and said,
"Fuck you, Babylon, for this stupid fucking idea,
and the rest of you can get fucked if you say one
word." Chris glared at all of them after feeding
Babylon and locking it back in its jail.

"You have sixteen dollars
left," Ezra remarked dryly, his full cup of coffee
in his hand. "Which is sixteen fucks at a dollar
a piece; or thirty-six damns, bitches, or hells;
or sixty-four shits."

Taking a deep breath, Chris
looked about to yell, and then tightly said,
"Thank you." He walked back to his office,
slamming the door.

"A dollar a fuck," Buck
mumbled, pulling out a bill.

"Do you even realize how bad
that sounds?" Nathan asked.

"Sixty-four shits ain't
healthy in a day, is it, Nate?" Vin queried, a
smile on his face.

Buck collected money from the
rest of them, placing it beside the jail cell. A
loud yell caught their attention, turning it
toward their leader's door.

Unashamed, they listened to
the conversation. Between frequent profanities,
which Ezra dutifully counted on a piece of paper,
they heard Chris "discussing" a screw-up by the
prosecution of their latest case; a screw-up so
costly it might lose the case for them. Chris was
verbally ripping the man another orifice in his
buttocks region, rationalized because three
members of Team Seven nearly died arresting the
suspects.

Low grumbles started, along
with a few choice words. Vin unlocked the jail
cell, pulled Babylon out, and placed the Mason jar
in the center of the group. Silently, each man
fed Babylon, before expressing his opinion.

When their leader came out,
he was holding another twenty-dollar bill. He
crammed it into Babylon's mouth. "Everyone paid?"

Six heads bobbed.

"Good." Chris put Babylon
back in the cell. "You probably heard what's
going on. Right now, it's all in the hands of the
judge to determine whether or not to declare a
mistrial, or null the entire thing. I'm pissed,
I've fed Babylon, and I'm going to say a few
words. DAMN MOTHER FUCKING SONS O' BITCHES CAN'T
DO A FUCKING THING RIGHT! We bust our ASSES to
bring down these ASSWIPES and now this pansy-ASSED
prosecutor's FUCKED the whole thing up so DAMN bad
that we might lose all the hard work we did.
Might have been like pissing in the wind, for all
the good we did." He raised his voice on the
curse words, aiming them out the open door of
their offices, letting the volume carry.

This was Babylon's purpose in
life. To collect funds for every curse word
uttered during the workday. Apparently, an
employee in the large federal building was deeply
offended by the fluent and frequent cursing of the
ATF field Agents. The employee tried to remedy it
with the offenders, but failed. In fact, it made
the situation intolerable from that moment on,
since the offenders went out of their way to curse
in front of the employee. So the employee filed a
complaint. The person had every right to file a
complaint, and Team Seven defended the person's
right to complain. It was their philosophy that
the employee had done everything right, but the
offenders were not cooperating. What they
objected to was the bureaucracy's answer to the
complaint. Instead of counseling the guilty
parties, the newly arrived Deputy Director created
a program to eliminate cursing in every office.
He installed Mason jars, along with a chart of the
cost of each curse word, and the admonishment that
persons caught not feeding the jars when cursing
would be disciplined harshly. The program was not
popular with the masses.

So far, Team Seven had
defended the employee who filed a complaint
several times, and finally spread the word if
anyone messed with that employee, they would
answer to Team Seven. They hated the program just
as much, but they, to a man, would defend the
employee's right to have a curse-free, non-hostile
environment. Unfortunately, they could not stop
their own cursing, but they paid for the privilege
to curse… and hated every second of it.

"Agent Larabee!" Assistant
Director Travis stormed into the office. "In your
office, now." He strode past, going into
Larabee's home turf and waiting. He closed the
door behind Chris. "I was at the elevators down
the hall and heard you. The entire building
probably heard you."

Chris, having a full head of
steam and still furious, replied, "Let them hear.
I paid for the privilege to cuss."

"That wasn't the intent of
the program – paying to give you free rein at
swearing."

"Then that should have been
specified in the rules." He opened the door.
"Ezra, how much do I have left?"

"After your tirade on the
phone with the prosecutor, and then your little
demonstration – ten dollars."

"Good." He slammed the
door. "It's bullshit."

Travis sighed. "I know, but
I have to enforce it."

"I don't need this shit when
the prosecutor's fucked up our last case so much
we're heading quickly into a lost cause."

Larabee considered for a
second, and then nodded. "You understand legalese
better."

"Will I also receive a
complaint about your behavior?"

"Probably."

Travis sighed again. He
dialed the telephone, had a quick conference, and
started to yell. By the time he finished, Chris
knew the person on the other end felt about an
inch tall, if that. When Travis hung up, he
opened Larabee's door, walked to the other office
door, and closed it before placing money on top of
Babylon's cell. What proceeded next was
completely out of character, but showed the depth
of feeling he had for this team.

When he finished, Travis took
a deep breath. "You never heard that." Giving
each of the seven a look, he waited until they
nodded. "I am going down to find a way to save
your case. I wanted that out of the way so I
won't lose my temper there, which I'm sure would
happen. As for the cursing, gentlemen, please
refrain from following your leader's and my
examples. Payment in advance will stop
immediately, and I will be having a conversation
with the new Director about trying to remove this
ridiculous program from your lives."

"Thanks, sir," JD said.
"It's not that we're out of control about cussing,
but sometimes, you just have to use words that
show how you really feel."

"I know, son, I know."

Once Travis managed to get
their case back on track, he called them and gave
them the good news.

The next day, they received a
memo stating that the jar program would remain in
effect, and payment in advance was no longer
allowed. All that did was return life to
semi-normal. Babylon was still fed at regular
intervals after closed door, low volume tirades.
There was a change, though – the men attempted,
though not entirely successful, to think before
they spoke.

Six months later, Babylon was
part of the team. The jail cell was made
portable, and went out with them on raids,
stakeouts, and wherever the work required them to
go. Not only did a simple little Mason jar turn
into a symbol, but it became a reminder to be a
little more cautious in how they treated others.

Not a bad life for a little
glass Mason jar, and it knew it.

Babylon sat in its cell and
waited. Sooner or later someone would come along
and feed it.